


post-release monitoring is serious business

by ImperialMint



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Communication, Happy Ending, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Torture, Recovery, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 21:24:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8912503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImperialMint/pseuds/ImperialMint
Summary: Percival Graves accepts Newt Scamander's request to travel to Arizona and look for the thunderbird he released, to ensure it made it to the breeding grounds safely. Still recovering from his imprisonment, Percival heads to the Grand Canyon, where he finds the ghost of a past he was never a part of. Credence, for his part, wants nothing more than to move on somewhere new, but how can he when all he wants is something he believes he can never have.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> a) i refuse to believe Newt would abandon Frank in New York and call it a day  
> b) both credence and graves need a lot of healing  
> c) both credence and graves need a lot of love, both for themselves and together
> 
> eventual nc-17 content

When the letter comes, Percival knows deep in his bones who will be heading out. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches Tina approach his desk like a timid mouse, a square of paper clutched in her hands. Her bottom lip is caught between her teeth, and she is wide eyed—barely looking at him. Percival is used to such a reaction now, having lived with it for six months now. It doesn’t make his job any easier, but he’s coped with worse than sympathetic looks and shy eyes.

“Mr. Graves,” she says respectfully, and Percival rolls his eyes. They’ll be here all day at this rate, and Percival is unwilling to waste any more time than he already has. He’s proved he’s in condition to hold his position as Director, but he can still see competition sniffing out the edges. They sense weakness, and Percival can’t afford to give even the smallest inch.

Instead of waiting for Tina to embark on what undoubtedly is a wonderful story, Percival stretches his hand out, gesturing for the letter. Her brow furrows, eyes focusing on the palm of his hand, and Percival fights the urge to pull it back against his chest. She was there when they brought him to the hospital, and he’d watched as she’d paled, hand covering her mouth. She hadn’t been the only one to throw up, and Percival considered that something to be proud of. He’d fought his captivity and had the wounds to show for it.

“It’s a letter from Mr. Scamander,” Tina says, passing him the envelope. “He’s worried about the thunderbird he rescued.”

Ah yes, Percival thought. He’d read all about the bird and the memory alteration. He’d also heard a lot about Scamander, and while he still hasn’t had the pleasure of meeting him, he sounds a definite character. Someone Percival had no doubt was worried about a thunderbird.

Percival scans the letter, fighting to keep impassive. He wants to smile at the care bleeding through the page, the letter imploring Tina to seek help. He keeps stern, though, very well aware of eyes watching all around, and looks at Tina with blank eyes.

“Have you spoken to President Picquery?” he asks, and Tina looks away hurriedly. Despite Tina’s involvement in the bust of the century (as the papers are reporting it anyway), they are all still aware of what she did before and how Picquery received it. Tina avoids her as much as possible, and Percival’s accepted it as part of his duty to take her concerns upwards.

“I wanted to speak with you first, Sir,” Tina confides, overly respectful. Percival longs to pat her shoulder, rouse a laugh from her and tell her they’ll have this sorted soon, but that’s something his imposter took from him.

Grindelwald took so much from Percival, and yet no one had ever questioned it. That terrified Percival more, and no false assurances that Grindelwald had been a remarkable actor could comfort him. No one is that good an actor, and Grindelwald had barely felt the need to skim Percival’s memories. They hadn’t known it wasn’t him, and Percival still isn’t sure how that makes him feel.

“Concerning the location, and the time of year…” Tina trails off, sighing. “You’re on good terms with the Native American ambassador, I believe?”

Percival stares at her blankly, lips pressed together. She knows as well as anyone does that their relations with the Native Americans are a shambles and always have been. There’s enough discriminatory policy and power in place to give the magical community a say over Native Americans, stumbling all over their religions and culture. It is the same for the no-maj side, and while Percival personally thought it utter bullshit, he is just one man, and there were plenty racist senators who would never see a real deal struck up between the wizarding American and the mixed magic and no-maj Native Americans. The ambassador is a sham job, given to an incompetent fool who can’t mess things up and start a revolution.

“Sure,” Percival says, leaning back in his chair and setting the letter down. He does allow a smirk this time, and Tina smiles faintly back. “And our relationship with the Native Americans is as great as it’s ever been, so clearly the ambassador is doing a great job.”

Tina looks baleful at his dry tone, and Percival’s humor dips. He has his own opinions on no-majs and what most senators would call other unsavoury people. They’re opinions he’s had to bury to get to the position he is now, and even now he can hardly change things for the better. And perhaps that’s how Grindelwald could slip into his life so simply. Perhaps there’s more similarities between them than Percival would ever want to admit, and while he likes to think he’s above murdering innocents for the cause, no one questioned it until a stranger came onto the scene.

Percival inhales sharply. He’s been through this a thousand times and more, and he can’t go down this road again.

“Anything I did would have to be done in secrecy,” Percival comments, and Tina looks at him sharply, eyes widening. “President Picquery isn’t taking any risks now, and certainly not with anyone who risks breaking the secrecy on magic.”

Talking to the Native Americans about a thunderbird would be a precarious situation, but Percival would rather deal with it himself than hand it over. He will be on their land, discussing culturally sensitive matters, after all, and he can’t trust someone else not to fuck it up.

“Anything you do?” Tina parrots quietly, and Percival runs a hand over his lips, nodding to himself.

“Mr. Scamander wants someone to head to Arizona, on Native American land. He wants to ensure the thunderbird made it there, and you came to me because you knew I was the only one with clearance and enough sanity in me to take this on,” Percival says, and Tina nods slowly, silent.

“There’s no guarantee I can get onto the mountain he’s named,” Percival says, and Tina nods again. “Mr. Scamander sends his regrets that he will not be able to make the journey in time for the breeding season. I, on the other hand, shall have plenty of time.”

Percival stands. With a flick of his wrist, all the belongings he’ll need fold themselves neatly into his suitcase.

“I’m owed vacation,” Percival comments casually, moving to his coat hanger and slipping it on. The scarf is next, and Tina is still watching with wide eyes, as if she can’t believe how easy that was. “I fancy somewhere warm and dry,” Percival says, and Tina’s shell-shocked look vanished, replaced with a warm smile instead.

“Of course Sir,” she says. “We can look after things here. If there’s anything, I’ll send an owl,” she promises, and Percival nods.

He’s slow to leave the room, muscle memory from months of captivity and torture. The medical team ensured him there wouldn’t be even the tiniest scar left over from his ordeal, save for one exception, but the body remembers even what it does not show. It earns Percival a number of pitiful looks, but not today, at least not from Tina. She’s looking at him as if she’s a bright new auror again, and Percival is untainted.

“I expect to leave after visiting President Picquery,” Percival says, and Tina nods. “Three weeks,” he promises, sticking to the time frame Mr. Scamander recommended in the letter. Three weeks is enough.

“Take care, Mr. Graves,” Tina calls as he strides from the room, and he lifts his free hand in a wave. He doesn’t look back, but he knows that Tina will be smiling widely now, pleased that he’s doing something other than stewing in his office. She’s always been a worrier.

Seraphina has an open-door policy for those important enough, and Percival has always been able to walk into her receptionist’s office unannounced, even before he became the Director of Magical Security. Her receptionist pauses in scribbling, quill hovering before her, and reaches for a memo. She flicks it off towards Seraphina’s office, a note of introduction or warning, as Percival takes a seat in the small office.

“You can come in Mr. Graves,” Seraphina calls, and the receptionist doesn’t try to hide her curiosity as Percival walks forward, suitcase and all. Perhaps she thinks he’s resigning. It’s been awhile since he’s been in here, so what else possibly could have brought him here looking as if he’s ready to leave?

“Madame President,” Percival says, and Seraphina looks up from her chair, eyes warm and smile soft.

Through this entire ordeal, Seraphina has been nothing but kind, and Percival hates it. He hates it because he knows she is far from kind. Seraphina is ruthless and protective, and while she is compassionate when the occasion demands it and places the needs of her people over herself, that has never made her kind. She treats him gently, guilt flowing from every guarded word she speaks and every small touch she presses to his shoulder.

“How can I help you?” she asks, and Percival fights to hold her gaze.

He knows she feels regret that she hadn’t been able to tell it wasn’t him. She knows that she blames herself, that she should have seen the signs, that of course she’s thought Percival a little harsher than he usually was, but they’d all been under stress hadn’t they and-

“I’m taking three weeks vacation, effective immediately,” Percival says, knowing this isn’t something Seraphina will deny him. He’s struggled to get his department, and by ripple effect the entire congress, back into working shape the past six months. They are as stable as they could ever be considering everyone is hypervigilant against no-majs. Grindelwald was transferred to European custody weeks back, and everything is quiet for now.

“Are you,” Seraphina starts, tilting her head. “Are you okay?”

Percival swallows thickly, a crawling feeling covering his skin, knowing she only means well. Knowing that doesn’t change how uncomfortable her kindness makes him feel, though.

“My caseload has been handed over, all investigations I was leading on finished up this morning. I have yet to be consulted on any more, but they can be referred to whoever you see fit to cover me while I am away.” Percival squares his shoulders, ignoring Seraphina’s furrowed brow. “I shall be contactable by owl and patronus.”

He doesn’t mention his own struggles to send a corporeal patronus lately. His owl will suffice if it comes to it.

Seraphina nods, looking away long enough to pull a form from her desk. Percival recognises the stamp of the portkey office, one of their forms sliding across the desk to him, already signed by Seraphina as authoriser. It’s a gesture of kindness, and Percival fights the temptation to rip it in two and march down to the offices himself. Still, he supposes not everyone trusts him even now, and applying for a portkey by himself will require a lot more effort than just taking the form Seraphina’s offered.

“I hope you find peace on your vacation,” Seraphina says as Percival takes the portkey form. She holds his gaze for a moment, and he nods, unsure what he could say. “You know where I am if you need anything,” she implores, reaching a hand across the desk.

She doesn’t reach for him, not quite, and while Percival might have sought the contact before, he doesn’t move an inch today. They will never be what they were before, two pillars of strength who supported each other, leaning against one another. Their paths have diverged, and Percival wonders which of the two of them will leave MACUSA first, for it’s inevitable at least one of them does. 

The portkey office is as drab as it ever is, and the elderly witch who runs the department glares at Percival as he steps into the waiting room. That’s nothing new, though. She’s a miserable old woman who lives to place red tape on every application Percival and his department send down. She pauses when she sees him, frown deepening.

“Come to cause us trouble, Mr. Graves?” She crosses her arms over her chest as the wizard behind the desk watches with a worried expression. “I haven’t seen you in a long time and you don’t even bring us cookies to apologise.” She shakes her head and Percival shrugs, waving his form.

“I thought the lack of my presence brought meaning to your day,” he comments in reply, and doesn’t miss the smirk on her face. She’s miserable, but she doesn’t treat him any differently to how she did pre-Grindelwald, and Percival is forever grateful.

“Let’s have it then. Who’s this portkey for and where?” Percival steps up to the desk, watching as the worried-looking wizard backs off, hovering behind Mrs. Johnson.

“It’s for me,” Percival states, taking the quill he’s offered and filling in the blanks of the form. “President Picquery has already authorised this. I’ll need one there and one back.”

Mrs. Johnson raises an eyebrow.

“No funny business,” she comments, and Percival looks at her, hand paused over parchment.

“I didn’t know you cared so much!” he says, letting a little shock creep into his tone. It does the trick, for she rolls her eyes and slaps a palm down on the table. The loud noise doesn’t bother Percival anymore, and he feels a tiny curl of pride as he doesn’t flinch.

“If it gets you out of the MACUSA for a while and stops you clogging up our inbox with your requests, I’ll cast the portus spell myself.” She waves a hand at the wizard, who makes a noise of agreement, hurrying off into the room Percival knows contains all their possible portkey objects.

“Arizona huh?” Mrs. Johnson comments, scanning what Percival has written. “Going sight seeing or something? I heard those condors are pretty cool, it was all Herbert talked about when he returned a few years back.” Percival has no idea who Herbert is, but he’s saved from answering as the wizard returns, a bible and white chess pawn in his hands.

“Here we go then,” Mrs. Johnson says, her wand out and tapping against the objects. She’s quick and finished in moments, passing over Percival’s portkeys. “Your first one, the pawn, takes you to Phoenix in three hours. Your second one brings you back. I’ll write the time and date on the first page,” she says, as if Percival won’t be able to remember when he’s due back. He nods all the same, thanking her and leaving without fuss.

He takes his time leaving the building, knowing there are many eyes on his back. Percival is content to let them talk, secure in his position, and he slips the portkeys into his coat pockets, squaring his shoulders as he makes it to the exit.

No one gets in his way. A few people glance in his direction, but they’re soon ducking their heads, avoiding eye contact. It’s how it’s always been, and Percival walks gracefully down the stairs, turning into the side alley used for apparation.

He’s home in an instant, ignoring the boxes he still hasn’t unpacked to grab a travelling case. Percival finds what he needs in moments, most of it in piles or moving boxes, despite two months having passed since he moved.

While he’d liked his last apartment, after being held prisoner there, living in it was no longer an option. Grindelwald had made it his own, and all Percival had seen in every shadow and every corner was his haunted face. He’d tried to push through it the first few months, but he hadn’t been living. The apartment he has now is spacious, with skylights and ceiling-to-floor windows. Light fills every corner, and while it’s not something Percival has sought after in a home before, it’s what he needs now.

Travel bag packed, Percival heads to the kitchen. He pours himself a glass of water, downs it, then refills, eyes drifting to the huge window across the room. He’ll miss this place when he goes, but Scamander’s letter included apparation coordinates for somewhere to stay. Somewhere discreet and magical, the letter had said, and Percival finds he really has no reason to distrust Scamander.

He has time before the portkey activates to mull over the situation. Percival knows this won’t be an easy fix whatsoever. He’s going to have to negotiate with an entire culture his own have persecuted for decades. Percival is in charge of enforcing legislation against them in his position, and he’s not so naïve as to think he won’t be recognised. Even if just by doing nothing, he’s caused people pain, and he won’t run away from that fact.

Still, Native Americans are far more generous and willing to listen than the Wizarding community, and Percival can hope they’ll be able to help him. All he has to do is look for the thunderbird with the pattern of black feathers around his neck, all drawn out neatly at the bottom of the letter. Percival’s never had to identify a bird by its feathers before, but thunderbirds are massive and should be easy to spot. It’s not simple, but he can do it.

Percival sets the glass down, casting a quick cleaning spell and moving to the couch. He sinks down heavily, steadying his breathing. It’s not often things overwhelm him these days, but he still has moments where the entire world feels too much. There are times when Percival almost wishes he was…

But that’s a terrible thing to think, isn’t it? Being held captive was terrible, he’d been starved, tortured, both physically and mentally, and he’d been alone for such a long time… but it had been easy, in a way.

Percival closes his eyes, thinking back to the very first moment, the first mistake.

It had been evening, he’d been patrolling, nothing too unusual. They’d all been pulling extra shifts since rumours of Grindelwald had begun spreading through Europe, and protesting no-majs had been particularly vocal that month. Percival had made the decision himself, and he’d been running on black coffee and stale pastries that night.

He remembers the crunch of his shoes on broken glass, then the intake of breath from someone behind him, and Percival had turned, wincing as the broken bottle had cut through his sole and into his foot. He remembers the burn of recognition as he’d looked in the eyes of the man behind him, and the split second he’d taken to react.

They’d duelled, though Percival had known from the first spell that he would fall. Still, if he fell, he wanted to take as much of Grindelwald with him as he could, and he’d poured everything he’d had into the short battle, spells shooting from his wand seamlessly. Percival had known his worth, knew plenty well that he was strong, but Grindelwald was on an entirely different level. He’d known it was only a matter of time before he went down. It had taken every inch of concentration to duel Grindelwald, so calling for back up hadn’t been an option, nor had sending a message. All the same, Percival had been determined to take whatever scrap he could with him.

In the end, it had only been damage to one eye, but Percival had felt that small victory as a slicing hex had split his chest open. It was damage that would easily be fixed, but Percival had been able to smile as he’d fallen to his knees, an empty feeling overtaking him as he’d felt the blood rush from his wound.

He had no idea how much time passed between the alley and waking. Grindelwald had been there, mismatched eyes staring through the dim light in Percival’s home.

“I’ve been watching you, Director Graves,” he’d said, and Percival’s body registered the pain of a barely-healed chest wound, coupled with lingering duel marks. That had been the least of it in the end, and the cruciatus curse had made the chest injury seem like a grazed knee, but the scar on his chest is the only mark that had been irreparable.

“And I see you. I see you, and I see him,” Grindelwald had continued, and he’d seemed strangely troubled, as if the sight of Percival and this man was something he couldn’t comprehend. “You are together,” he’d continued, and then with a sigh and lazy flick of his wrist, he was opening the wound on Percival’s chest, draining away enough blood to keep him weak and on the edge of consciousness. It was, Grindelwald confided one night, months into their situation, the easiest way of keeping a strong man down.

And he’d been right. Percival isn’t ashamed to admit it anymore, but he’d been weaker than a baby when they’d found him, barely holding onto his mind. The healers had been astounded, and like the best in any profession, they’d had him fixed up in a matter of weeks, back to full physical health, with just one reminder of what he’d been through.

“It’s too old,” Percival remembers the healers explaining quietly, looking at the knotted mass of skin that cut its way almost diagonally over Percival’s chest and torso. “There’s too much and the wound is too old.”

It had been the only scar that remained after his rescue, a quick affair that left Percival in the hospital for three weeks and a hushed up report in the paper. It was an embarrassment, Seraphina had admitted later, that they’d not been able to tell who Grindelwald was. If Percival had been feeling much of anything back then, it would have been anger at her words. There had been no concern for Percival, trapped with only pain and misery for months in the hands of the darkest wizard of their time.

Percival shakes his head and stands. He doesn’t have time to reminisce, needs to pull himself out of the past. What happened is over, and he can move on.

He wants to laugh at that, though.

Checking the clock on the wall, Percival has time for one last glass of water before his portkey activates. He stands in the center of his living room, small pawn in hand, suitcase in the other, and the vertigo-inducing tug at his naval spirals him across the country.

It’s warm where he lands, the local portkey office bustling despite it being midweek. He’s in Phoenix, the sun beaming through the window. The clock shows it to be mid-morning, and Percival lets his eyes roam around the spacious office. There is a single desk station, and a bored looking wizard gestures him forward.

“Wand and ID,” he says, monotonously, and Percival hands over MACUSA card and the portkey. He hesitates with his wand, just for a moment, and then he sets it down on the counter, letting the wood roll slightly towards the clerk.

“Thank you Sir,” he says, and Percival watches as he waves his own wand over the counter, nodding in satisfaction. These are just a small sampling of the increased security measures Seraphina blasted through congress, though Percival feels it’s like shutting the barn door after the horse has long bolted. She called it immediate action while Percival had been recovering, and he tries not to feel bitter she did his job for him. Grindelwald had been doing it for months before then after all.

Percival is given everything back, and he tucks his wand away gratefully. He doesn’t like seeing it in other people’s hands. His wand is his power, and while he can comfortably use wandless magic, he needs his want to defend himself properly. A wand is power, and Percival cannot let that go.

He’s free to leave, and Percival steps into the bright sun, sweat beading on the back of his neck in moments. He’s still wearing his heavy coat and scarf, and while it’s not completely out of place, especially so close to the portkey office, he can see a few people looking him up and down. He shrugs his coat off, casts a small cooling charm, and he’s comfortable. He doesn’t know how no-majs live here, that’s for sure.

He has the coordinates for his next jump memorised, and while Percival’s stomach is still swirling from the portkey, he wastes no time in apparating. He lands with a heavy breath, out of practice travelling such distances in one go, and notes that most of what is around him seems to be scrubby dirt.

He blinks once, something blurring in the corner of his eye. It’s the taste of magic, a barrier that serves to keep people out, but Percival’s trained his entire adult life to blur through barriers such as this with ease. He steps through the light shimmer, the limits of the spell searching over him, trying to determine whether he is a threat or not. He closes his eyes as the spell latches on, digging deeper in an attempt to find out what he wants and who he is.

Percival is let through, and he opens his eyes to an entirely different scene. It’s a ranch, a large one he thinks, though he knows very little about ranches, or anything western to be truthful. He can see a group of people in the distance, and what look to be cattle. There’s a chicken close by too, and he recognises no-maj vehicles and machinery littered around the yard.

He’s standing in what seems to be a front yard, a large house before him. There are at least seven barns he can see, and Percival is sure there are more. It smells just like he’d expect a farm to, though there is a sweet scent underneath the animal and shit. Percival can see why Scamander recommended this place, though he has no idea how he’s going to get the property owner to see him as anything but an intruder.

“You’re the one Mr. Scamander sent over?” a firm voice said, and Percival turns.

There is a woman standing behind him, hands on her hips and a trail of chickens behind her. For a moment, Percival’s heart leaps in his chest, for he thinks she could be Seraphina’s mother, or what he remembers of her mother. She has a calculated look in her eyes – business eyes Percival had come to call it. He looks harder, past the smear of dirt on her cheek and the straw clinging to her clothes, and the resemblance ends quickly. She is the owner of the property, Percival decides, and he’s taken aback when she smiles, wide and welcoming.

“It’s about time. We expected someone over a month ago! The mountain’s been storming for weeks now, you better hope you’re not late young man,” she chides, though there’s no bite in her words. She laughs, and Percival feels something calming flow through him. He can’t remember the last time he was called a young man, and he rather likes it. He supposes he is still young for a wizard, though he hasn’t felt young in years.

“My name’s Eulalia. Only two people on the ranch call me that: my partner and one of my hands. You can call me Ma.” She beamed again, and Percival steps closer to her, careful to avoid the chickens pecking at their feet.

“Percival Graves,” he replies, and Ma hums to herself. He wonders if she recognises the name, and surprises him when she speaks.

“Percy then, that okay young man?” Percival can count on one hand the number of times he’s been called that. It had never suited him before, but he feels it’s right coming from Ma. He nods, and she points behind them, to the house.

“That’s my house. My partner and I live there. The back’s converted for our workers and friends. There’s the guest house, that little building down the lane, and that’s where you’ll be.”

Percival nods, absorbing the information.

“You’ll be sharing it with one of my employees, but he’s a good one. Keeps to himself most of the time, clean, good eye for work. Very keen too, I’m sure you’ll get along.” She pauses, tilting her head as if she’s forgotten something. “I think he’s from your way – New York was it? Mr. Scamander mentioned it a way back, but I have a mind like a sieve, you know!”

Ma laughs, the sound booming around the yard.

“We’re completely hidden from the outside world – unless you know what to look for of course, just like you did Percy – so feel free to use as much magic as you want. We tend to do things the no-maj way, I’ll admit, so don’t be surprised if you see us taking the longer option.” Ma pauses. “I’ll let you get settled before I grill you on your plans. We have someone who can take you up the mountain when you need to go. Your new housemate will likely head up there too, he’s friendly with the Apaches, came down from the mountain actually.”

Ma blinks suddenly, as if she’s forgotten the most important thing of all. She seems the type to disclose her entire family history the moment you meet her, and Percival is a little stunned by her words.

“Food. Lunch. The kitchen’s in the main house, everyone eats there.” Her face softens and she reaches to pat Percival’s arm. “You New Yorkers are always so busy, we’ll feed you good and proper here.” 

Percival thinks he’d rather eat alone, but that doesn’t seem as if it’s an option. Perhaps company will be nice, when he does make it to the kitchen. He’s still feeling the stomach-churn of the portkey, and shakes his head when Ma offers him food right away, eyes raking over his form, as if he’s a skeleton in need of a good meal.

She lets him go eventually, and Percival heads off to the little converted storage hut. It looks big enough to hold two people, just about. It’s probably smaller inside than Percival’s current apartment, but they don’t need a kitchen. Besides, this is a magical property. For all Percival knows, Ma’s charmed the inside to be plenty bigger.

Opening the front door, it’s clear Ma hasn’t charmed anything about this place. It’s dirty, but not in a way that screams neglect. Someone’s living here, and they’ve tried the best they can to keep it clean, but there’s a distinct lack of cleaning spells, and Percival can see cobwebs up high. He ignores the small patch of mould growing in the corner. A small spell can fix that too, once he talks it over with the other tennet.

There are two small rooms, what seems to be an approximation of a parlor, and an indoor bathroom, complete with bathtub and toilet. Percival is impressed, and he finds the unoccupied room easily – it’s the one with the door firmly shut. A glance in the direction of the other room shows a neat bed and little personal effects. Perhaps the other tennant intends to move on eventually.

Percival enters his room. He can just about walk around the bed, and there is a single wardrobe in the room. It’s sparsely furnished, and he thinks the bed itself may be padded with straw, but Percival is a wizard. He’s never been particularly gifted when it comes to enlargement charms, but he pulls his wand out all the same, stretching the room so it doesn’t feel as if he’s trapped inside a box. Or worse.

There is a small window, and that too is enlarged, from ceiling to floor. It ends up covering over ¾ of the wall in the end, but Percival can’t find it in himself to care. If it means he wakes at dawn, he’ll wake at dawn. He does fashion a chair out of one of his scarves, figuring he’ll have little need for it here. It comes out light grey and printed with baby blue, plush and perfect for staring out at the ranch. Depending on what the other boarder is like, Percival can see himself spending a lot of time in that chair.

The last thing he touches is the bed. He enlarges it only slightly, not overly fussed with space, but the mattress itself has to be transfigured. Firm but comfortable, that’s what Percival needs, along with pillows that are more than a thin strip.

As he finishes, Percival’s chest aches in warning of over exertion. He wipes his brow of sweat, only realising now that he’s still wearing his coat. That won’t do, he thinks, and peers out into the hallway. There’s a coatrack sitting by the front door, and he shrugs the coat off, half-caught in the gesture when the front door opens.

“Hello?” a soft voice calls, a tall man hovering in the hallway. He’s looking down, as if that is his instinct, and moves his entire body to look up.

Percival gives an uneasy smile, unsure whether he should introduce himself, or whether he’s about to receive a hex for potentially trespassing. He opens his mouth to run with the former, but pauses at the pale look on the man’s face.

He looks, for lack of a better word, terrified. Percival can’t think of anything that would evoke such a strong reaction, and looks behind himself, expecting a dementor to be there, or something equally as horrid. There are no dementors, however, just Percival.

“No,” the man says, and he sounds wounded. “Not you,” he manages to say, fear and loathing rolling off of his tongue as he turns. Percival gets barely a step forward before he feels the rush of magic pushing him back, the man determined to get away from him as quickly as possible.

“Well,” Percival addresses the coat stand, “that was different.”

.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to lunarshores for the betaing!

Percival is a powerful man: he knows this. He’s second to the President herself, and even Seraphina has joked that she isn’t sure who would win in an all-out fight between them. He could be a candidate for the next presidency if he chose to be (not that he ever would), and his skills are renowned throughout MACUSA.

He’s intelligent too, able to plough through cases and problems. He reads plenty, is unafraid to seek answers and admit he doesn’t know everything. He is disciplined and strict, and knows he’s the envy of more than a few people.

So, despite his power and intelligence, Percival has no idea why he’s talking to a coat stand. He supposes it’s better than talking to the door, which had slammed shut a second ago, the young man bolting out of the house after he’d spoken.

“Ma did say he was a bit strange,” Percival says, and he thinks that the coat rack shifts just so slightly. That or he’s finally cracking and seeing things that shouldn’t be there. That’s a very valid option too. Or, and this is the most likely explanation, the sweat beading his brow is dripping down his face, and he caught the motion of it.

A subtle cooling charm fixes that. Percival won’t part with his suits so soon after arriving here, if he does at all. He has no idea how the no-majs survive here without cooling charms. He also has no idea what the young man’s problem is, and Percival lingers in the hallway, looking at the coat stand, as if it has the answers he needs.

It remains still and quiet. Percival has to decide this himself.

He decides that staying put is the best course of action. The young man had spooked, and it must be up to him if he wants to come back or not. If Percival goes running after him, he has no idea what will happen. Best to leave it in the young man’s hands.

He returns to his room to finish packing and tidying up. He spells the room clean and repainted, freshening up the tired wallpaper and carpet. He ponders transfiguring a vase and conjuring flowers, but that’s perhaps a bit overboard. The truth is, Percival doesn’t know how to make things homely, but he’s seen newspaper clippings and been around some of his subordinates’ homes. They have things like vases full of flowers and bowls of fruit. It stands to reason that this should be more like a home, if Percival is to stay here for three weeks.

A quick glance to the room opposite, and Percival sees that the young man has very few personal effects too. There is a book on his bedside table, a glass of half-empty water beside it, and a soft, knitted blanket on the bed. It’s a little shabby, most likely made personally for the young man, and that’s all Percival can see from his doorway.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair and closing his eyes a moment. Percival has never been good at getting along with people who clearly don’t like him. He never has to, usually. Criminals are ignored and interrogated, and other people are discarded if they don’t like him. Percival doesn’t need to constantly interact with those who dislike him how this young man does, and he has no idea on how to approach the subject. Does he ignore it? Does he apologize? He doesn’t know what he’d apologize for, but it would have to mean something, surely?

Percival sinks down onto the bed, tiredness pulling at him. He’s been aware of how tired he’s been since he woke up in the hospital, but he’s hardly had a moment to acknowledge it. Now, in the middle of nowhere on a ranch full of strangers, Percival can lie down on his bed and bury his head in his pillows. He can close his eyes without wondering if someone is watching him, waiting, and he can let some of the weight on his shoulders seep away.

He wakes slowly, facing the window. It’s dark outside, so it’s been at least a few hours, probably more than a few though. Percival has rolled onto his back, and his mouth is dry. He was probably snoring, a habit he’s never been able to break out of, reserved only for when he’s able to let all of his guards down and sleep properly, and he moves his jaw a little, running a hand over his face.

Percival transfigures a glass from one of his cufflinks and fills it with water, wordlessly. It’s only then that Percival realizes that, for the darkness outside and the full moon hanging low in the sky, the house isn’t dark. His door is almost fully-closed too, and Percival knows that means his companion returned. Or perhaps it was Ma. He’s not sure. Someone was here, however, and he hadn’t woken up.

The thought bothers Percival, and he downs the rest of his water, setting the glass down on the bedside table. Why hadn’t he woken up? Usually the faintest stir has him shooting up out of bed, but he’s slept through someone entering the house and closing his door slightly. No matter how quiet the young man was, discomfort spreads through Percival; in any other situation he would have woken.

Percival takes off his jacket and waistcoat. He has a feeling a less formal approach will work better with the young man, if it is the young man outside of course, and he mutters a quick charm to flatten the wrinkles of his pants. He considers taking his shoes off, somewhat mortified he fell asleep in them, but ultimately decides against it. He wants to be informal, not improper. Percival doesn’t know why, but there is more than meets the eye to the young man. He wants to know why he was so damned afraid.

Despite his decision, when Percival reaches the door, he pauses. He’s still hidden behind the door, and he hears the sound of someone moving about in the room opposite. Almost certainly the young man then. His eyes dart across the door, Percival nods, and he clears his throat loudly, aiming to warn the young man he’s about to exit his room.

It sort of works, Percival decides when he opens the door. The young man is stock-still in his own room, hand reaching for something on the bed as he hovers by the door frame. His eyes are wide and dark, and Percival is reminded of an animal before the slaughter.

“Um,” he begins, his words faltering for some reason. “Thank you for closing the door,” Percival offers, and while he knows his expression is unchanged, inside he wants to bang his head against a wall. What is wrong with him?

The young man’s eyes dart to his own door, as if he’s contemplating slamming it shut. Percival wouldn’t blame him, not really, but it would be rude. Still, perhaps that’s how they do things on this ranch, and who is Percival to interrupt an important ritual.

“I didn’t have the chance to introduce myself earlier,” Percival begins, taking a half-step forwards into the hallway between them. He pauses as the young man flinches, eyes rooted to the ground.

“You are not a nice man,” the young man says, and Percival’s lips part in surprise. He is speechless, a frown crossing his brow. It’s true, is the thing. Percival knows he’s not a good man. There was a reason no one knew Grindelwald had slipped into his life.

“You hurt me, Mr. Graves,” the young man says, and he sounds wounded down to the soul. Percival can feel the thread of powerful magic in the air, and he fights every instinct to reach for his wand. It’s on the bed anyway (not that he couldn’t summon it with a mere thought), but he knows the young man is practically explosive.

“I apologize,” Percival says. Perhaps he should have gotten Ma to introduce them before he just started unpacking and changing things in the house. He knows what it’s like to have a home invaded, and Percival just marched right in and started changing a room to his liking. Not that the young man was using the spare bedroom but still. Percival supposes it’s the principle of it.

“Ma must have mentioned me – Newt Scamander asked I come to-“ Percival breaks off as the young man looks up, his eyes milky white and black smoke curling upwards off of his cheeks. Percival’s mouth is dry as the pieces fall together like a jigsaw, scattering and impossible until they suddenly all make sense. He is an intelligent man, after all, and he knows what an obscurial looks like.

He wonders if Tina was in on this the entire time, or whether she was just another part of the puzzle.

“My name is Percival Graves,” Percival says, drawing himself up. The young man before him doesn’t like his words much, but Percival has always known there are some things that have to be said, no matter what. “I am the Director of Magical Security for the Unites States of America. I am second in Congress only to President Piquery,” he says, noticing the way the young man’s hands seem to be dissolving into curling, black smoke.

“He said he was sending someone good,” the young man grates out, body vibrating as he struggles to contain the immense power of an obscurus. Percival watches, captivated, for a moment, before common sense hits him. And his stomach rumbles with hunger, but that’s a little less important than the potential ticking bomb before him.

“I don’t expect you to believe me,” Percival tries, ignoring the panic welling in his chest as the black mist of the obscurus spreads over the house. The light dims, and he tries not to think of pain and blood. “We have never been introduced. I’ve never met you. The man you think you know, the Director Percival Graves who befriended you and hurt you, was a cruel man who stole everything from me.”

Percival tries not to think about the way his voice breaks on the last words. He feels terror grip him, but it passes as he blinks, gaze suddenly watery. He can’t lose composure now, of all times, and certainly not in front of this young man.

“I can show you my memories if it’ll help,” Percival says. He’s sure Ma has a pensieve they can use, but if not he knows how to get one. “I have… proof,” Percival continues, and he lifts his hands up.

The darkness spikes as he reaches for his shirt buttons, and Percival pauses, aware that the young man is more creature than human right now.

“He hurt me too, Credence,” Percival says, and the bubbling mist pauses for a moment, as if it’s listening. “He manipulated you, forced you into a corner, and wouldn’t listen to you when you needed help.” Percival’s fingers tremble as he undoes his buttons, his shirt falling to the ground as he slides out of it quickly. In anyone else’s company, this would be devilishly improper. Now, Percival thinks as he pulls his undershirt up and off, over his head to fall on the ground too, it may be the only way to keep his head on his shoulders.

Percival doesn’t think Credence would ever have seen him without a shirt on, or at least he hopes. From the way the black smoke pauses, Percival thinks his assumption was correct, and a tiny prick of relief presses between Percival’s shoulder blades. What would he have done if Grindelwald had…

“I received this wound the night I was captured, weeks before I could have possibly met you,” Percival says, offering his chest to Credence. He hopes Credence can see the vulnerability in him, can see how deep the scar is and how long. He hopes Credence can see how damaged Graves is underneath the suits that make him Director.

Something has to go through, for the obscurus smoke shrinks in on itself, and Credence reappears whole. His eyes are fixed on Percival’s chest, barely inches away now he’s reformed, and he seems fascinated by the damage.

“He took my face and hurt you,” Percival says slowly, voice low.

“And he hurt you too,” Credence replies, eyes snapping up to meet Percival’s for the barest moment. His eyes are dark, full of questions that Percival isn’t sure he can answer, and he draws upon the best option he can think of, one he learned in the darkest depths of the war, alone on foreign soil.

“Tea?” he asks, and Credence blinks. “We might as well start at the beginning,” Percival announces, and he moves off before Credence can agree or disagree. He needs to do something, and he’s hungry. There has to be something in their little shack, even if Ma said all meals are to be taken in the main house.

Their tiny parlour has a small cupboard to the side, next to a sink. It’s very rudimentary, but there is a burner and a kettle. Graves doesn’t actually need either of these things to make tea, but one glance at Credence, who is creeping along the hallway slowly following Percival’s shadow, and he decides to do things the no-maj way. Well. No-maj is perhaps a loose interpretation of what Percival is doing.

“I don’t want to startle you,” Percival says, and he feels like an idiot, half-dressed in a tiny parlour, making tea in an even tinier corner of a kitchen. Still, he doesn’t fancy becoming obscurus fodder, and he has a good thing going right now. “I’m going to use a little magic, just enough to get the fire on the burner going.”

Percival doesn’t wait for Credence to give him permission, just waves his fingers and the burner is on. He fills the kettle and places it to boil, looking next to the cabinet for two mugs. There are no mugs, or even teacups, but two dusty bowls can be transfigured easily enough.

“Credence,” Percival says, and he sees Credence’s entire body jerk at the mention of his name, fear startling him like a small, woodland creature. It’s then that Percival notices Credence is clutching something; his bundled clothes.

“Thank you,” Percival says gently, and Credence looks down, holding the bundle out instantly. “You can set them on the chair closest to you—I’ll redress in a moment.”

Credence is incredibly strange, Percival thinks. He watches as he folds Percival’s clothing carefully, as if it were made for a king and out of the finest materials. He is delicate, when moments ago he could have destroyed the entire building in the blink of an eye. Percival remembers Tina’s muttering, how none of this could have ever been Credence’s fault. Percival can see that as clear as day now.

“Can you transfigure these into mugs for tea?” Percival asks, when Credence has stepped away from the chair and is hovering in the doorway once more. He shakes his head, eyes fixed on the thin carpet.

“I don’t have a wand,” Credence mutters, barely above a whisper, and Percival bites the inside of his cheek. Technically that’s not what he asked, and if anyone could transfigure without a wand it would certainly be Credence. He’s not going to do what he’d usually do this time though, and Percival nods, letting it go.

“Would you be comfortable if I went to get mine? It’s on my bed,” Percival explains, and Credence looks at him, dark circles under his eyes.

“Just to change the bowls,” he says, and Percival nods. He’s careful when stepping around Credence, and it’s only when he’s back in his room that he lets a puff of breath out, only just aware he’d been holding it.

This… was not how Percival imagined his first night in Arizona would be. There are more questions than he can count, he is sharing a house with someone who is terrified of him, and Percival has no idea if he can fix anything. He came here at the request of an old friend’s brother, only to find that Newt Scamander knew very well the condition of the thunderbird, and that this wasn’t ever really about the thunderbird in the first place. This is about Credence. Percival doesn’t know what he can do to help, however. He stares down at his bed, eyes focused on the handle of his wand, and he sighs, closing his eyes.

He returns to the parlour and dresses first, setting his wand down on the chair, right where Credence can see it. He’s shifted further into the room to sit on the armchair, still tucked in on himself, wide-eyed and guarded, as if he expects Percival to lash out without a moment’s notice. The observation makes Percival’s skin prickle, and he hastens to tuck his undershirt in, leaving his formal shirt open in favor of attending the whistling kettle.

He takes it off the heat, careful to show Credence what he is doing. It’s a tactic he’s employed a few times for other people, though the circumstances were always very different. Trauma is a deadly thing, and Percival wants Credence to be able to judge things for himself.

“I’m going to transfigure the bowls now,” Percival explains, hoping for explanatory and not patronizing. He does it with two small taps to each bowl, china reconfiguring until they have decently sized mugs. He nods, risks a glance at Credence, and his eyes widen.

Credence is, for lack of a better term, captivated. His gaze is rooted to the mugs, lips parted. Percival is reminded harshly that this world is still so new to him, and no amount of careful words and explanations can prepare Credence.

“I’ll transfigure the kettle too,” Percival offers, tapping the kettle three times to turn it to a teapot. It’s rather paltry, a squat, square thing, but it’ll do the job. There is a tin of tea on the counter, and Percival’s lips soften as he recognises the branding.

“Scamander was here, wasn’t he?” Percival says, taking leaves from the tin and setting them to brew. He lets the teapot and mugs float after him as he moves over to the settee, against the back of the room and beside the armchair Credence occupies.

Credence simply nods, and Percival sets everything down on the low table in the center of the room. They sit in silence for a minute or two, waiting for the tea, and Percival is, for once, content to let it remain quiet. It’s awkward, of course it is, but he’s too tired to do anything but sit and stare blankly at his mug.

“Do you need more light?” Credence asks suddenly, halfway through Percival pouring them mugs. There’s no sugar (not that Graves takes his tea with any), and there is hardly enough milk for the both of them left (he prefers his tea black anyway, which always sent the British into a mild panic whenever Percival was forced to drink it around them), so they forgo that entirely. What matters is the action of sitting down with the tea, really, Percival has come to learn.

The room is dimly lit, was before they entered. Percival looks around and shrugs, offering Credence a small, tight smile. He doesn’t want to admit to how much the darkness bothers him, and it’s not like he hasn’t dealt with less-than-perfect situations before.

In reply, Credence closes his eyes, and the lights flicker, illuminating brighter. His shoulders slump when he opens them again, but there is pride in his eyes, and Percival doesn’t bother to hide his surprise. He nods, appreciatively, and slides one mug closer to Credence.

“I’ve never met you before, but I’ve heard lots about you from Miss Goldstein,” Percival says, and Credence brings his bare feet up onto the chair, tucking his knees against his chest. “As far as anyone in New York is aware, and that includes MACUSA, you died the night Grindelwald was captured.”

Percival considers his words. He’s skipped ahead a little, hasn’t he?

“Do you know who Grindelwald is?” he says, and Credence’s look hardens at that.

“Mr. Scamander told me. He said he is an evil man, a dark wizard who manipulates people and wants to start a war.” Credence shifts tighter into himself. “He wanted to use me to start a war.”

“Yes,” Percival says, glad that Newt Scamander does have a good head on his shoulders after all. There’s always the risk, with brothers, that one gets the good parts and the other the leftovers.

“He’s not you though,” Credence says. He looks at Percival as if he’s still trying to comprehend that, as if he’s still trying to puzzle his way through what is truth and lie. Percival nods unable to hold Credence’s gaze for more than a second.

“He stole everything that was important,” Percival says, closing his eyes as the darkness presses in. He can remember the flick of an unfamiliar wand, splitting pain, and then nothing. He struggles to open his eyes, and he’s thankful Credence remains unchanged. He doesn’t need pity from someone his doppelganger almost destroyed.

“Grindelwald did a lot of terrible things. After you were—pardon the expression—neutralised, Mr. Scamander revealed that Grindelwald had been disguising himself as me. Shortly after that, I was retrieved from where he held me captive.” Percival nods, reaching for his tea. It’s still a little hot, and it doesn’t taste any better than it had when Percival had sat explaining terrible things the world did to young, foreign men, but it’s the process. Something warm, something that can offer a moment of comfort, and something to share.

He remembers the first time Theseus sat him down, passed him a mug of weak tea with a splash of milk and demanded he drink. They’d come to a dead end, almost three days with no sleep, just the two of them. They hadn’t had the time to sit and drink tea, but Percival thinks that, because they did, they got out of that hell alive. They’d been the only ones who had.

“Mr. Scamander asked that I travel here to check on the thunderbird,” Percival says, cutting to the chase. He wants to know Credence’s side. “So here I am. The MACUSA have no idea why I’m here. I’d like for it to stay that way.”

Credence doesn’t say anything for a while. His gaze flits between Percival and the tea on the table, and it must be at least 10 minutes before he uncurls ever so slightly, squaring his shoulders.

“Mr. Scamander said he was sending a friend of his brother’s to help monitor the breeding season,” Credence offers, pressing his lips tightly together after he’s spoken. “I didn’t know it would be you,” he finishes, and Percival tries not to wince at the way he emphasises ‘you’.

“Well,” Percival replies gently, sipping at his tea. “I consider myself to be a friend of Theseus Scamander. We served in the war together.” Percival doesn’t offer more than that. He doesn’t owe Credence any of those stories, and there are many memories that he’d rather not have lived through.

Percival doesn’t comment on the deception Newt Scamander has played upon them. It’s not important, in the long run. Perhaps Newt sees something that they need in each other. Or perhaps he was just out of other options.

It is a few more minutes before Credence talks, and he begins with a sigh, unfolding himself and sitting back in his chair. His gaze is steely as he fixes it on Percival, and Percival fully expects to be ejected from the house that moment onwards.

“I’ll help you,” Credence says, and Percival pauses, hand half-reaching for his tea. “Business only. You’re not my friend, and you never will be,” he warns, and Percival thinks that is more than fair.

“I only have three weeks,” he dismisses, picking his tea up and cradling it in his hands. Percival wonders if he could risk a joke about trying not to get too attached, but he has a feeling it won’t go down well and abandons the thought.

“Three weeks,” Credence murmurs, tilting his head to the side.

“Three weeks,” Percival confirms, sipping his tea and trying not to think about whether he’s ever had a cup of tea in a favourable situation. He doesn’t think so. And, for some reason, he decides he wants to talk.

“I remember this one night,” he starts, and he can feel Credence watching him, gaze heavy. “It must have been almost the morning, I was on watch duty—we were tracking dark wizards, the last of this bunch. Horrible wizards, one in particular had a nasty taste for slicing hexes…” Percival breaks off, wondering how much is too much, but a quick glance upwards shows only interest on Credence’s face.

“Anyway. Theseus had gone out with one of the junior aurors to fortify our wards and work on some tracking spells, the kind that were just being developed, and we probably shouldn’t have been live-trialling them as they were traceable, but we’d been stuck in a Belgian bog for two and a half weeks, even wizards get desperate then,” Percival says, and he wonders how he can look back fondly now to his time in the bog. It had been a miserable couple of weeks, and he hadn’t felt his toes the entire time, regardless of how many spells he’d directed at his boots.

“The junior auror suddenly comes running in, waving his arms about as if he’s being attacked. We’re all on alert in an instant, expecting that Theseus has been captured, and we’re about to duel for our lives.” Percival swallows, smiling slightly. “We run outside—the junior auror still babbling away, he had a tendency to resort back to French when he became nervous, and translation charms were terrible back then—wands ready, all prepared to fight.”

Percival risks looking at Credence again. He’s watching Percival closely, lips parted. He has an odd intensity that Percival risks a flush if he dwells on Credence’s dark eyes much longer, so he hastens to finish his story, shrugging and taking a sip of his now-lukewarm tea.

“Theseus is standing there, covered from head to toe in mud, and the junior auror finally calms down enough to speak. All he says is bog-dog, bog-dog, and we all think he’s lost it.” Percival can see Theseus clearly in his head, thin from their back-to-back hunts, but he’d been smiling. It had been a rare sight, and it’s one of the few memories of those long years Percival isn’t afraid to recall.

“Beside Theseus, there’s a dog. This massive, muddy, dark thing, looking for all the world like it could maul each and every one of us. Only, it jumps up, paws on Theseus’ shoulders, and licks his face. It was just a lost dog. Maybe it could sense that Theseus was used to animals,” Percival thinks that makes a lot more sense now, knowing more about Newt Scamander.

His story ends awkwardly. Percival doesn’t think Credence understands a lot of it—he hasn’t really explained Theseus or what a bog-dog is. The silence stretches, and Percival doesn’t think there’s much point explaining magical dogs to Credence. For all Percival knows, he already knows what it is.

“What happened to the dog?” Credence asks, and Percival sets his tea on the table, hands returning to his lap. His good mood fades, and all that’s left is hunger and regret. He considers, just for a moment, lying, but that wouldn’t do anyone any good.

“I don’t know,” he says, and the light in Credence’s eyes dims. “We couldn’t stay, and it couldn’t come with us.” Percival clenches his jaw, thinking of the massacre that had followed. The junior auror hadn’t been saying anything after they’d neutralised the threat. No one had.

Percival stands, cursing himself. He’s never this maudlin. He hasn’t felt sorry for himself for what happened in the way for years, yet here he is like an old man counting his woes. If he has to regret and feel sorrow, there’s a more recent event he could focus on that would be better worth his time.

He thinks he’s probably just hungry. Nothing good ever comes of missed meals.

Percival turns to Credence, and he stalls as he sees an edge of white to his irises. Credence still has perfect control, Percival didn’t get to be Director without being able to read situations quickly, but it is a warning. Percival isn’t sure what for; standing quickly, leaving the dog alone in a war, or existing.

“I need something to eat,” Percival explains, hating the itch that says he must explain everything. He’s on eggshells with Credence, but he doesn’t want to be. He just wants things to be normal.

Which really means he wants to go back to before Grindelwald fucked everything up, and that’s not going to happen any time soon.

“I’ll take you to the kitchen,” Credence offers, and it’s a nice thing to do. Still, Percival wishes he wouldn’t but stays quiet.

Percival makes quick work of making himself presentable, doing his shirt up and gathering his waistcoat from his room. He shoots a quick shining spell at his shoes and runs his hand through his hair. He even considers a quick breath freshening charm, but by that time Credence is in the hallway, staring blankly at the door, and Percival needs to stop fussing. No one cares what he looks like here, and only Credence knows there was a man who stole his identity. No one else knows anything about the fake Percival Graves.

The main house is quiet as they enter, through the backdoor, which Credence informs Percival is always unlocked, screen in place. The kitchen is quiet, two long benches either side a table taking up most of the room, the rest divided by a counter, behind which the kitchen proper sits. There’s one other person at the table—Ma, hunched over a book. She looks up as they enter, breaking into a smile as soon as she sets eyes on Credence.

“I wondered when you’d be making your way over here,” she says, clapping her hands together and standing. She slides out from the bench, heads to the kitchen, collecting two bowls from the counter. The third she leaves, and Credence follows her over to the table, leaving Percival to his own devices.

“Grab us some glasses Percy, would you?” Ma asks, setting the bowls down. A thin, light-colored wand slips from her pocket and she taps the bowls, and Percival can hear her talking to Credence about warming charms as he searches for the glasses. They’re in the third cupboard he opens, and by that time Ma has set up the bowls so he and Credence are beside each other.

Percival is too hungry to think of anything but the food in the bowl, and he reaches for the spoon settled in the food, nodding his appreciation.

“Credence says you’re settling in well,” Ma says fondly, and Percival knows Credence has a soft spot in her heart. “I did worry, what with you being from the city and all. I know not all city boys are the nicest, but Newt vouched for you, and if Credence says you’re a good man, I’m not worried,” Ma continues, and Percival just nods.

He doesn’t point out the inconsistency. If Credence wants to tell her something different so that she doesn’t worry about them, it’s none of Percival’s business. He can deal with this for three weeks, pasting on a smile and pretending that Credence wouldn’t rip him apart if he had the chance. Not that Percival thinks he actually will, but it’s something he’s already considered and probably will again.

“Silvia should be back soon,” Ma says, patting the table softly. She glances at Percival, eyes warm. “My partner, she works in town at the hospital. I stay up until she comes home, and Credence usually keeps me company, but I won’t be offended if you two would like to spend more time together instead.” She smiles, a little cheek creeping in, and Percival wonders what on earth she can see between them, or who has said what.

“Missus Eulalia,” Credence says, practically scandalized. He’s smiling though, as if he expects this from her, and Ma laughs loudly, shaking her head.

Percival’s spoon scrapes the bottom of the bowl, and he blinks, not aware he’d finished so soon. As if it’s an automatic response, he feels the urge to yawn, and barely stifles it.

“You can head on off, Percy,” Ma says kindly, and part of Percival wishes to be politer, be more courteous, but he really is tired. He’ll atone for his abrupt departure tomorrow, but his bed is all he can think of in this moment.

“Thank you,” Percival says sincerely, and he stands. He smiles at Ma and nods at Credence, escaping the main house before he does something to scare Credence off. He knows when to quit when he’s ahead.

Percival sighs, the door closing with a bang. He is too tired for this, and he tries to empty his mind the best he can as he returns to his little room. He dresses down slowly, pulling a pair of pyjamas from his case with a frown. He would prefer to sleep naked, truth be told, but he has a feeling it will offend Credence. And there’s a high risk he’ll be mauled by insects. He doesn’t know any shielding charms that will work against them, something he can fix tomorrow.

Sliding into bed, Percival turns to face the window. He leaves his door ajar, dims the lights and watches the darkness. He can see the stars and the light of the moon, though the moon itself is hidden by a patch of cloud. He can see the outline of fields too, and a huge tractor standing alone. It’s eerie, but it doesn’t displace Percival. It’s a calm eeriness, so unfamiliar to the darkness lingering in the corners of his mind.

Sleep doesn’t come until he hears the click of the front door, the shuffle of feet, and then a soft sigh. There is the creak of a floorboard, the sharp inhale of breath, and then his bedroom door closes, followed by the sound of another door closing for the night.

Percival doesn’t dream that night.


End file.
